


From the Beggar's Cloak

by hedgerowhag



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, M/M, References to Norse Religion & Lore, i genuinely have no idea how to tag this au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6241336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgerowhag/pseuds/hedgerowhag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Saxon traveller came to befriend a Queen from the northern lands who invited him to spend the festival of Lithasblot in her hall. When the feast began, in the hall the traveller meet a blind beggar who spoke of the Gods and their ploys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Beggar's Cloak

**Author's Note:**

> some elements were taken from [ All-Kinds-of-Fur](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm065.html) and from a previous work called 'What the Raven Stole'.
> 
> this will probably be deleted later on

Once, there had been a norseman Queen named Lagertha who ruled the northern lands with her husband the King. Many shores had the Queen seen as she crafted treaties and won victories. There had been not one to compare with her in wisdom or in courage and for that she was feared and revered – Goddess and woman in one flesh.

Upon her travels, as the Queen payed her visits to a loyal ally she came upon a stranger in the hall – a wanderer of the land and sea. She became curious of the young man and approached him. As the Queen and stranger spoke she learned him to be a priest of the Christian God, who abandoned his oaths if favour of the wandering road and the knowledge of the foreign folk. Amongst those stories the wanderer named himself to be Athelstan, a Saxon man from a country in the west.

In the eyes of the good Queen favour the wanderer had won. Alas, in good will, she offered him a place in her hall for the festival of Lithasblot when the people come together and be merry. Gladly, the wanderer took that offer for the Queen was gracious and her husband was known to be the most noble and wise. After all, who would not pay blood or gold to be in the presence of those who are compared to the light of the myths – the Gods.

Thus, when time came, the Queen recalled her kinfolk and they rode across the open land in their great numbers. Back to the settling on the fjord they travelled as the warm winds of summer broke against them and brought the sweet smell of plenty.

To the Queen’s great hall they travelled where kin of blood and mind met them beyond the doors. Into the arms of loved ones the warriors were taken, rejoicing in their reunion after the many weeks of travel.

Away the good Queen went, out of sight and hearing, leaving her kinsmen to their union. When the Queen returned to the celebration, she took her guest by the hand and named to him her son and daughter – the fair nobles of age, smiling and bright as their mother.

“I am honoured to have met your children,” said Athelstan, “but I can’t help but wonder where is the King. I have heard many great things about him and it would be a privilege to see him.”

 “I wish for you to meet my husband,” replied the Queen, “but I fear that he has fallen ill. But do not worry, you shall tell him your tales on the third day of the feast.”

Alas, the feast was called; the hall was cleared, tables and seats arranged and the surfaces ladened with food and drink from that year’s harvest. Many an animal was slaughtered in the name of the festival, fruits were gathered, bread was baked and drink was brewed. Into the hall the guests gathered, laughing and singing in their merry, wild voices.

To the head table the Queen called Athelstan to sit beside her while the prince took his father’s place. At the Queen’s left hand the good wanderer was seated so that she may speak to him all the while for he was the honoured guest of her choice.

After the speeches of celebration and toasts of honour were done in the memory of what had passed and the year yet to come the dances and games began.

Amidst the people a cloaked stranger appeared, his features hidden beneath a hood. His clothes were dark and tattered, worn by the road and the rain. At hand he held a crooked staff that guided his steps. He held himself away from the crowds and the dancing fires.

Suddenly, out from the crowds appeared children that came and took the stranger by his hands. As the cloaked man lifted his head, he revealed his eyes to be bound.

“Who is that man,” Athelstan asked the Queen, “that has entered the hall but speaks to no one?”

The Queen saw the stranger and smiled, “That,” she said, “is a wanderer of our land, homeless and nameless, but welcomed by us for great many tales he brings.”

Away from the song and dance the Queen took Athelstan, to sit amongst her kinsmen who gathered to speak and drink. To them the Queen introduced him as the Saxon priest, from beyond the western sea – a country called Northumbria.

With great disdain the kinsmen parted for the wanderer but spoke with great honour and respect to their Queen and fellow warrior. Of their strange Gods and their marvels these people spoke, sharing these reverent tales with sacred wonder, pulling meanings and signs from the empty air.

“Where do your Gods come from?” asked Athelstan amongst the tales, “were they present from the beginning of all, or did they emerge as the world formed?”

“Ignorant priest,” one of the kinsmen spat, sneering at the innocent as he stood from the circle, “why must we tell you anything when you pollute us with your _God_.” 

The kinsmen left to join the dances and the games, leaving the Queen and the priest to their silence.

“Maybe the stranger will know the answer to your question,” the Queen said before she called for a servant to fetch her the blind beggar.

Alas, the servant spoke to the blind man and took his by the arm, to where the Queen and the priest rested he was brought. Below the rags and tattered furs, the man seemed handsome for his face was young and noble. With a hand outstretched the man stepped to the Queen, from right to left his hand wavered, above the mead-cups of the callers.

Alas, the Queen took the blind man’s hand and said, “Welcome guest, wanderer and wise one, I have a request for you. A friend of mine from a foreign land asks: where do our Gods come from? Can you answer him?”

The blind man smiled, “Perhaps I can. First tell me, does he sit beside you?”

So the Queen took the stranger’s hand and placed it onto Athelstan’s shoulder.

“Ah, so you are the ignorant one?” The blind man laughed.

“Indeed I am,” replied Athelstan.

“Then let me tell you, our Gods came with the beginning of all when our worlds were crafted from fire and ice.”

“But?” the Queen enquired.

“But,” the blind man nodded, “some I have heard speak that Gods were but noble Kings and warriors who were sent by their people to the world beyond when they died. There, they were crowned with stars so they may send blessings to their mortal kinsmen. By their people – their chieftains and followers – were they called Gods,” the man concluded, a sly smile playing on his lips.

Alas, the blind man left the Queen and the priest, his hands pulled by laughing children who begged for stories of their heroes and Gods.

As Athelstan drank the last of his mead, upon the bed of brass he found a single slip of polished iron no bigger than a thumbnail. Upon that slip a peculiar mark was drawn: a single arrow pointing across the narrow width of the iron.

“ _Kiznaz_ _,_ it is called,” the Queen said as she looked to the held symbol, “a sign of knowledge and teaching, a blessing of certainty and clear sight.” 

“A blessing? From who?” asked Athelstan but the Queen only smiled and stood, returning to the table of the King and Queen.

 

Onto the second day the festival continued as the people feasted and circled the great fire before the hall in their weaving dances. With the embers the voices of the people raised, to the twilight darkness of the summer’s night. In the gown of white linen and bone the Queen danced and sang in prayer, in hand with the people of her kingdom.

Between the drunken folk the children ran with their fleeting laughter, winding amongst the fires where the kinsmen celebrated. Amongst it all wandered the Saxon priest, a filled mead-cup pressed to his lips and he quenched his thoughts.

By the hand the Queen had caught that sullen priest and with laughter cried, “Come, dance with us, you are our guest.”

“There is no need,” protested Athelstan as he slipped the Queen’s grip, “I was fine as I was.”

“Indeed Lagertha,” one of the kinsmen approached the Queen, “leave the Christian be. We do not need him; we do not welcome him.” The man attempted pull away the Queen but she wrenched away from his grip.

The Queen turned back to her guest but he was already gone, disappeared amidst the crowds.

In the emptying mead hall of the celebrating norsemen the Christian wanderer found himself, pouring into his drying cup as the people followed the sound of the singing voices.

“Why do you punish yourself so, priest?” a voice pried Athelstan from his thoughts. It was the blind man, the wanderer from the northern lands. With a cautious hand pressed to Athelstan’s elbow the man approached, smiling from beneath his hood.

“How did you know it was me?” asked Athelstan, he did not withdraw his arm from the grip.

“I do not need eyes to see. But at times they would help,” the blind man trailed his hand down Athelstan’s arm until it came to lie over the stem of the brass cup. He took it by the rim, brought it to his lips and took one heavy swallow. “Like now, I can’t help but wonder what your face looks like,” the stranger grinned. “Will you let me see your face?”

Athelstan said nothing. He withdrew the mead-cup from the stranger’s hand and placed it onto the table. Then, he took the strangers hands and lifted them until the rough fingertips touched against his jaw.

With a smile so sly that it almost made Athelstan regret his decision, the blind man trailed his hands over the priest’s features: his chin and jaw, the arches of the bones of his cheeks, the brow and the line of his hair, down across the line of his nose and then the bow of his lips. Sharply, the man drew back.

“Have you known, priest,” murmured the stranger as he pulled the tattered cloak about himself, “that our Gods often disguise themselves, change their faces and voices or such and appear to our people to play cruel tricks on us. Sometimes, they use these tricks to test us.”

“Are you saying that you are a God?” asked Athelstan, smiling.

“Finish your drink, priest,” the blind man turned around and walked away.

Later on, when all the mead was gone from the brass cup, Athelstan found a slip of iron. On it was etched a single line and from the stem the two bent ends grew in opposing directions.

“ _That_ is called _Eihwaz_ ,” said Lagertha when she plucked the iron from his hand, “it is said that it means something is due to come.” She drew her fingers over it as if to warm the metal, “but only through ending may it arrive.”

 

On the last day of Lithasblot, the people gathered once more in the hall where the tables and mead benches were set. But on that day, the people stood with their cups and their horns held as they waited in quiet anticipation.

And at last! Out from the shadows walked a noble man. His hair was twisted into thick braid that ridged his head, his clothes black and embroidered in symbols and signs, his steps aided by a tall staff. But his eyes were what seemed to draw him apart from other men for they were bright and wild as the iron sea.

“My husband and your King, Ragnar,” spoke Lagertha where she stood at her seat, “apologizes for not being able to be part of the feast. But now I am glad to say that he is with us once more.” The crowds shouted in joy, cheering for their King.

The great lord only gave a brief bow, humbly looking to his people before waving them on to begin the feast. Alas, the noble family was gathered at the head of the hall, the King and Queen and their two bright children who were just as brave and wise as their parents.

From amidst the people the kind Queen called the Saxon priest, gesturing for him stand before the table at which the family was seated.

“This,” said the Queen, “is a traveller I had met on my visit in the north. He was once a Christian priest of a country called Northumbria to the west. I invited him to share stories with us, knowledge of the foreign countries.”

The King smiled at the traveller, the laughter reaching his eyes, “sit,” he gestured, “drink, no guest should be thirsty,” he took a cup from the table and poured mead until it flowed to the brim.

Alas, the Christian priest sat beside the King and Queen and spoke of his Lord and the wonders which He crafted; from the beginnings of time when the world and all its marvels were moulded, the fall of Man, the tales of the faithful holy men and the birth of the Son who saved Mankind. With silence and attention the nobles listened, prying the traveller with brief questions and quick remarks.

Scarcely in the course of those hours did Athelstan touch his drink but when his throat began to dry of words Lagertha pushed the cup into his hand and said, “drink.” Intently pushing it to his lips.

As the last drops slipped down his throat, Athelstan felt something press against his lips. When he drew back he looked into the brass belly of the cup and found a smooth slip of metal lying on the bed. Carefully, Athelstan retrieved it and looked at both sides. On one, he found an etched mark as if a tailed arrow, gleaming on the surface of the polished iron.

When Athelstan looked up from his cup he found the King and Queen looking at him intently, their eyes bright and shining.

The King reached for Athelstan’s hand that clenched the rune and took it into his own, his palms as warm as red coals. “Perhaps you would like to stay with us a little longer, priest,” said the King in the blind man’s voice.

**Author's Note:**

> the last rune is othala
> 
> one small notice: i used the elder futhark runes because they were used in the series (eg. i looked at the horns that floki carved), even though the younger seemed more appropriate. the younger were used in the 9th century and the series starts in 793 AD (late 8c)... but this au accounts for ragnar being king, his children being grown up etc. so, i dont know. which is the correct (the younger or the elder runes), you guys that are far more educated than i am can start a thumb war between yourselves
> 
> my existence is also available on [ tumblr](http://beeeeebeeee.tumblr.com/)


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